


my prince

by boybinary



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: M/M, Mutual Pining, Prince!Steve, Royalty, is this modern? is this old-timey? i havent the slighest idea
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-07
Updated: 2018-07-07
Packaged: 2019-06-06 21:30:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15203885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boybinary/pseuds/boybinary
Summary: “You call me Stevie when you think I’m asleep,” begins Steve, so quiet he thinks he didn’t even say it; Bucky doesn’t move from his spot lit up in front of the door, “so why is it always ‘my prince’ when I’m awake?”or, a self-indulgent prince!steve and his servant-guard-friend!bucky fic





	my prince

**Author's Note:**

> this was supposed to be a birthday fic im sorry steve  
> anyways! this! tookthreedaysandsortofhasn'tbeenedited ! all mistakes are mine yee
> 
> speeshul thanks to [leen](https://twitter.com/ssryuri) and [rey](https://twitter.com/40sbucky) and incorrect cult + leena's server for suffering my yelling thenk

“ _Steven Grant Rogers!_ ”

It’s pointless to keep running. (Her voice echoes across the courtyard.) And he _knows_ — he _knows_ that it’s pointless to keep running yet his feet continue to thud over the paved stones, _thud thud thud thud thud_. He’d lost his shoes somewhere, pretty leather things from the Starks up north. White dress socks ripped and soiled with dust and dirt and grime. Mud stains the rich royal blue of his trousers into ugly, greyed colour.

It feels like his ribs are going to crack from his heaving breaths. His hands sting, scrapes from the high garden wall he landed on after crawling out his bedroom window. Water floods his eyes, making it difficult to see— he’s _not_ crying. It’s _not_ tears welling up and catching on his eyelashes. “Steve!” she calls again, high heels clacking against the cobbles.

He runs faster.

It’s not like him running away is an unusual occurrence or anything. Every single time there’s a ball, he wakes up to servants peering over him, tools in their delicate fingers like they’re preparing to prep a meal. Every single time there’s a ball, he’s forced into fancy silks and ribbons and rubbed down with oils until he smells like an arrangement of flowers, for the greasy royalty that come from other kingdoms to try and get him to marry their daughters. So he runs, the moment they turn their backs, scurrying out his bedroom window and landing in the thorns underneath.

He notices the person right before he slams bodily into them. And because he’s short, skinny, _tiny_ — _he_ goes hurtling toward the ground.

Only he doesn’t quite hit the ground, the person’s hands shooting out to grab his shoulders and steady him. He blinks the hotness out of his eyes. One flesh hand, one metal hand. The person is Bucky, his— servant. Personal assistant. Guard. Best friend—?

He can hear the heels. Never stumbling, never tripping, walking fast fast fast over beige stones. He tries to wrench his shoulders out of Bucky’s grasp, tries to run, run until he’s muddy and bloody and doesn’t smell like flowers and isn’t ‘Such a pretty boy... would be a _marvelous_ match for my daughter’. He doesn’t want to marry that girl or this lovely young lady or ‘are you having a secret affair with Queen Peggy? Please tell me I _promise_ I won’t tell anyone else’.

He tries to run but Bucky doesn’t let him go, flesh arm and metal arm wrapping around him, around his back, holding him to his chest. Bucky’s shirt smells nice, like pine, like the woods, like sweat. Not like flowers. His lungs squeeze inside his chest and he coughs into Bucky’s shirt. Biceps cover his ears.

The queen—his mother—comes around the bend, eyebrows knitted together, worry carving lines into her face. Bucky releases him, and he stumbles back, the rush of cold cold cold making him dizzy. He coughs, bent over, hands on his knees, suddenly missing the support of Bucky’s arms.

“Steve your outfit is all ruined...” Sarah frets, the hem of her flimsy silk gown dragging against the ground as she kneels. Eyes flick from scraped knees to scraped palms to a long cut on collarbone, oozing blood. _You’re_ all ruined, is what she’s thinking. He shakes off her hands and helps her up, but dust already sticks to the bottom of her dress. “Let’s get you back to the maids,” she urges.

As he’s walked back to his room, dragging his feet, he notices Bucky watching.

(Eyes blue, hair combed into a simple ponytail, hands behind his back.)

 

 

Steve drops into the bath, warm and positively _stinking_ of roses, uncaring over the water that splashes over the edge. Steam curls off the surface of the water in coils of thick white that stretch toward the marbled ceilings, escaping out the cracked-open window. Soaps and creams line the edge of the bath, names and scents marked in neat printing— _Bucky’s_ printing, he thinks.

He cups the water in his hands— trickling between his fingers, pale pinkish orange like the tea he knows Bucky favours. It smells of roses, seeping into his pores. “ _Ah what a coincidence! My daughter’s favourite essential oil is rose too!_ ” Daughter, daughter, you should marry my daughter. He sighs.

There’s a knock at the door. (Bucky’s knock.) “Come in,” Steve hums. A cold rush of wind clears the air as Bucky pushes open the door, the whir of his arm barely detectable in the steam-filled bathroom. He changed out of his guard uniform, Steve notices. The guard uniform with the full, deep red sleeves. Thick, pressed pants. The sleek sword hanging from the hip is just decoration, Steve knows of the guns and knives Bucky has hidden behind the thick fabric. To protect— him.

He’s smiling at Steve now, wearing a filmy white blouse and thin black pants. Hair loose around his shoulders. Barefoot. Steve can see the scars crawling across Bucky’s torso, fractal patterns from a shock collar to thin surgical lines from his arm. “Hey,” he says, a murmur, quiet but not lost behind the muffled _thump_ of the heavy door.

“Hey,” he responds.

Bucky drags a stool over to the side of the bath. “Are you excited for your ball?” Small talk. Banal, small talk, because even though the door was locked, all of the servants had access in case _the prince_ needed assistance. And it wouldn’t be a first time that a noble bribed a servant to get into the prince’s bathing chambers to force his lovely, young daughter onto him. Awkward for him, the young daughter, and for Bucky or whichever servant was kneeling beside.

Your ball. _Your ball_. Bucky knew well enough that Steve hated— _despised_ going to balls. Hours of being hounded and chased and harassed about every inane thing that could’ve been spent drawing, or gardening, or stargazing. And— _your ball_. His ball. A whole fucking celebration all for him, all to find him a suitable queen, because he’s turned down every single proposal since he was eligible to marry (and before— it wasn’t like age mattered to old men whose days were ticking already).

“You know I hate these stupid celebrations, Bucky,” Steve says, dunking his head into the water. Bucky _does_ know. Yet he asks anyway, lathering scented soap through his hair, metal fingers scratching at his scalp. He turns and there’s a smirk that stretches across Bucky’s lips. “You still a fucking fucker.”

Bucky’s metal hand warms easily, and his fingers are hot as they ghost over Steve’s back, wrapped around a bar of soap. “I told Chef to make that raspberry soup you like,” he says, but Steve isn’t listening. (Not really.) The water turns fiery where sunlight hits it, making the flowers floating on top seem to glow.

‘What is James to you?’ someone had asked once. Glaring eyes following as Bucky steered Steve down the hall, hand on the small of his back. My guard. My servant. My assistant. My friend. My, my, mine. Nothing more, nothing less. He’s my guard, he’s allowed in, he says forcefully. You allow him in or I leave, and I take all agreements off the table. He wishes he could call Bucky _his_ — but no; because Bucky isn’t his.

Bucky is not his.

“I’m done,” Steve says, abruptly standing up and sloshing out of the bath. Soap suds still tingle on his skin.

And if Bucky is surprised, it doesn’t show.

 

 

The chandelier twinkles above his head. They went red and gold and pink, white tablecloths with gold threading, red roses bursting out of glass vases, warm yellow lights. He’s all trussed up like the chicken on the table, sharp maroon coat flaring out over his hips. Unbuttoned at the top to show the flouncy white blouse. Tight black pants and polished shoes (that he’s already scuffed, oops). Add a feathered hat and he’d be the fourth musketeer.

He looks good—the walls are shiny enough to reflect— but he doesn’t look like himself. Not that any of the people at the ball would know what _he_ looks like, used to their primly dressed little prince.

It’s a ball for him. He stands next to the queen, girls lined up in front cradled next to their rich and important fathers. It’s a ball for him, so he can’t wander off when they aren’t paying attention, because they _always_ are paying attention. It’s a ball for him, so he can’t stand broodily next to the food tables, because _it’s a ball for him_.

He didn’t even ask for a ball.

But he’s twenty five and the servants from his childhood have all bought themselves freedom (except Bucky— he wonders why, Bucky certainly had enough to buy himself free, even after paying back for the metal arm) and are married and have kids who have kids and he’s still the little blonde prince who’s never wanted to court, never showed a single drop of attraction toward any of the princesses.

Steve sneaks a glance at Bucky. He’s standing to the right side of the room, hair combed back, blue eyes staring straight ahead. Metal fingers curled loosely by his side. He stares straight, almost unseeing, barely blinking or moving. The chandelier reflects off his metal arm, from his eyes, making the pale blue glow almost. The moments tick by like syrup.

When he moves, his gaze meets Steve’s.

“ _And, her majesty, Queen Peggy,_ ” bellows the announcer. Steve’s eyes flick toward the front again. A fake, polite smile collapses into a genuine one. Peggy’s hair falls around his shoulders in wide curls, a sleek golden dress like a flute of champagne, lips a deep red as she brushes her fingers against his.

They hover for a moment, for a moment before he steps forward and she steps forward and a mannerly handshake becomes a tight hug.

He can feel his mother hyperventilating. Peggy— well, Peggy probably isn’t supposed to be here, considering it’s a ball to find him a wife and Peggy is already engaged to Rey. He’s certain the gossip circles will be talking about this for a while, from wondering if Steve’s taken a fancy to Peggy, if Peggy reciprocates said fancy, if Peggy’s a cheater, if Rey knows. ( _No_ , and no, because they’ve always been friends before they were lovers.) “Thank you,” he whispers against her pearl earrings. They pull apart, and he doesn’t have to explain himself, because they know each other like _that_.

(He can’t help comparing _this_ , what he has with Peggy, to what he has with Bucky. With Bucky, he wouldn’t even have had to utter the words. He would just _know_.

The realization has him reeling.)

She stands to the side as he greets other girls, all tulle and silk and lace, glitter and sparkles arranged meticulously on sharp cheekbones, deep reds and pale pinks and rich blues and purples. They’re all pretty, beautiful even, but—

(He sees Bucky when he sees blue eyes. He sees Bucky when he sees silver gloves because Bucky’s arm shines like that in the light; he sees Bucky when he sees white tops and when he sees wavy brown hair and when he sees someone limping, like Bucky does at the end of a long day, metal arm weighing him down.)

May I have this dance?

His fingers feel sticky from holding the hands of so many people, loose glitter smudging onto his clothes when they trip exaggeratedly, expecting Steve, who can barely hold himself up half the time— (body wracking with coughs, shivers, something or another) to catch them.

He does, because there was no way in _hell_ he was letting them fall, but there are aches all over his body now and his bones squeak in protest.

Peggy asks him to dance and they just sway, hands linked like when they’d wander the gardens together, and she tells him about her girlfriend— soon-to-be wife and the girls around them try to muster up glares of jealousy but can’t, because it’s _Peggy_. (She talks about Rey. He wishes he could talk about Bucky.) And she feeds him, patting his hip and loading up a whole plate of bite-sized foods for him.

He gets sandwiched between two princesses at dinner; and they seem more infatuated with one another than with him. It doesn’t particularly hurt but he’d usually be sitting up at the head of the table, his mother to his right and Bucky to his left.

(He doesn’t see Bucky in the dining room.)

(And it’s not as much ‘dinner’ as it is ‘socializing’, because none of the dishes served are actually touched— people preferring to titter over the dearth of ribbons and white leather, or the surplus of purple dye.)

(He wonders if that’s the reason the food is still set out after everyone filters out of the dining room and back into the ballroom.)

But Bucky’s in the ballroom.

A few girls ask him to dance again, flutes of champagne clutched in neatly manicured nails. They’re drunk—tipsy—and when they trip across the ballroom; instead of staring, horrified, (like normal) they crack into laughter and Steve feels like the only sober one in the room.

There are girls everywhere, and suddenly, standing beside a pot of raspberry soup, Steve feels lonely.

(But Bucky is still watching from the side of the room.)

 

 

The sky changes, strokes of bright colour—yellows, pinks, oranges, purples, blues—like a painter’s canvas. (He’s always liked to draw, wanted to paint the fleeting things he saw.) wind tugs petals off the the rose bushes, little smudges of red and pink and white flapping in the breeze. Steve sits outside. The ball winds down as the sun burns fiery on the horizon. It’s still warm, like something hot on a cold day— his hair is a mess, there are scratches on his fingers from the rose clutched in his hand.

The rectangle of light from inside is broken by the silhouette of someone— Bucky. He doesn’t even have to turn around to know it’s his servant— guard— _friend_ —

“My prince—”

Steve continues to play with the stem of the rose, brushing the tips of his fingers over the thorns. Pricking. _Your highness,_ Bucky used to greet him, back when he was eight, nine, ten, eleven. _Would you like a drink, your highness?_ Little kid voice saying things that Steve only ever heard elder servants say—  _Your bath is ready, your_ highness. Your highness, your mother wants to see you in her chambers after supper. And then _your highness_ became _my prince_ (even though Steve could never be Bucky’s, and Bucky could never be his) and sometimes, when Bucky thinks Steve is sleeping, he calls him Stevie.

_Goodnight, Stevie. Have good dreams, Stevie. I’ll be back in the morning, Stevie._ (He always is. Back in the morning, waiting beside Steve’s bed.)

He drops the rose. It’s not _quiet_ , per se, but the door slides shut and the music fades to a dull hum and he feels like he can hear the bloodied flower hit the ground. (He knows he can’t, but he _thinks_ —)

“You call me Stevie when you think I’m asleep,” begins Steve, so quiet he thinks he didn’t even say it; Bucky doesn’t move from his spot lit up in front of the door, “so why is it always ‘my prince’ when I’m awake?”

Bucky freezes. (Or maybe, he imagines it.) “Your highness, I—”

“And sometimes you slip back into ‘your highness’,” Steve cuts in, smudging away the bloody marks on the rail, “when you’re afraid.” Why are _you_ , of all people, afraid of _me_? “You’ve been with me since I was eight... More of my life has been _with_ you than _without_ you and still.” He steps toward Bucky— but his eyes are averted, staring at the cloudy indigo-ink spilling in from the edges of the canvas that is the sky, staring at the stars dotting the clouds, staring at anything but Steve.

His hands hang limply at his sides. A piece of hair has come loose from his tight bun; he stands still when Steve tiptoes and tucks it behind his hair. He runs his fingers along the— smooth stem of a rose, taken from one of the table displays, prettier and fuller than the ones in the garden but so perfect it seems imperfect the longer you look at it. One hand, one at a time, he laces his fingers through Bucky’s metal ones and it’s cold in the way that tingles.

He tucks the rose behind Bucky’s ear, rises on his tiptoes, and presses his lips to Bucky’s.

They’re also cold in the way that tingles.

 

 

Bucky flees.

Steve sits on the bench, hands bleeding, until drunken girls file into their carriages, until the table cloths are sent to the laundry and until smashed plates and shattered cups in the ballroom are swept up.

Nobody comes to sweep up the broken pieces in his heart.

 

 

It’s dark when Steve picks himself up, dusts himself off, leaves the broken pieces alone.

His footsteps echo in the sleeping castle and each time he passes a window, he tells himself he isn’t lonely when the moon is still in the sky, but—. The door doesn’t creak when he pushes it open. He wishes it did, but the door to the prince’s chamber shouldn’t creak.

Bucky’s waiting for him.

 

_Bucky’s waiting for him._

He’s standing in the middle of the bedroom, rose in his hands, turning it over and over and over and over. He looks up when Steve enters and his eyes are bluer than a sunny day. Not wide, like the girls’, framed with long eyelashes like the girls’ and rich powders that make their eyes stand out more against pale faces. Bucky’s eyes just... Collect the moonlight.

“My p—”

Steve sweeps into the room, shutting the door with a click. Sliding the rose out of Bucky’s fingers; blue eyes staring into bluer ones. “Steve. My name is Steve,” he says, sliding closer on light feet. “Not ‘my prince’.”

“My Stevie, then,” breathes Bucky, and Steve thinks he imagines it until Bucky’s hands find the divot in his back and Steve’s fingers tangle in Bucky’s hair and Bucky smells like— soap. Like humidity. Like vanilla cake. _My Stevie, then._ He’ll never forget this moment— hell, he’ll never stop thinking about it.

The elastic in Bucky’s hair comes loose and Steve snaps it against his wrist, Bucky’s hair cascading down around his face like a curtain. He can see Bucky’s eyes, eyelashes casting shadows over his cheeks. His scratches his fingertips against Bucky’s scalp like the thousands— millions— of times Bucky’s done that for him, washing his hair, helping him fall asleep.

There’s no music, and they start out swaying gently, Bucky’s fingers tapping a beat onto the small of Steve’s back. “I don’t dance,” murmurs Steve. “That’s okay, neither do I,” is the reply, Bucky’s warm breath fanning over the side of his neck. There’s no music but Bucky begins to hum, and they—

just

sway.

beneath the moonlight.

 

 

_“Don’t you worry, I’ll be there for you.”_

**Author's Note:**

> hit me up ~~or just hit me~~ on [twitter](https://twitter.com/teabfs) !


End file.
